Make Sure I'm Gone
by tipthecabbie2.0
Summary: This was a songfic, but I dropped that, so though the first chapter has lyrics in it, none of the others do. Johnlock, post Reichenbach. There is some smut and also major character injury, though no major character deaths to date. (Don't worry, I promise not to kill the boys!)
1. Better Sorry Than Safe

_**Oh no! A songfic! W**_

**___W_****_hat has it come to?_**

_**Bear with me though, okay?**_

_**Song for this chapter is "Better Sorry Than Safe" by Two Hours Traffic. I do not own the song or any characters represented here, and all rights go to their proper recipients.**_

_**Reviews fight SOPA!**_

* * *

Chapter One: Better Sorry Than Safe

John hung up the phone. He didn't know why he still texted and phoned him… He was dead. But it was just so hard to fathom. Sher-… 'he' had always been so untouchable. He seemed as though he would never die. Maybe that was it, John thought. But it didn't matter now. Every call ended in silent tears, and John hanging up, and every text was left unanswered.

* * *

_Silence on the line between us_

_Sounds so very wrong_

_I won't be_

_Happy_

'_Till it's gone_

_Until it's gone_

* * *

Sherlock stared in disgust at the fresh corpse that lay at his feet, nudging its head away with the toe of his shoe, making certain not to get any blood on his trousers. He then pulled out his phone and hit the return call button.

"Come on, Sebastian, we have a flight to catch."

"'Sher, do we haaave to?"

"Yes, don't be a child. We've only got one more target."

"Exactly."

Sherlock almost regretted hiring Moran. He was definitely an amazing marksman, but his demeanour was altogether too similar to his previous master's. His singsong voice and short temper were the opposite of what Sherlock wanted in a companion; His talkative nature and touchy-feely mannerisms were altogether off-putting to the consulting detective. He missed his quiet blogger, with his awful jumpers and moral compass. _Nope, stop that, _Sherlock thought quickly. _I have to give him the option to move on before I go back… all the same, I wish I had told him._

* * *

_Give me one more dance before you_

_Take the time to choose_

_I've got_

_Magic_

_In my shoes, as well_

* * *

John got up, stretching. He hadn't really slept anyway, so what was the point in staying in bed, even if it was 5:30?

He never slept anymore.

He took Sherlock's old room a week after the funeral, trying to absorb some of the warmth that his flatmate had left behind in his wake.

Mrs. Hudson didn't charge him rent anymore.

He paid it anyway.

Part of him truly wanted for Sherlock not to be dead.

But the rest of him knew that that was impossible, just wishful thinking.

_At least there aren't any fingers in the jam anymore,_ he thought with a dark chuckle.

But then he remembered the way that the detective's face lit up when he got an interesting case, and the way he _actually attempted _to be a good person sometimes, and his heart sank with the realization that he would never see him again.

_Just another typical morning,_ he thought as he left for his shift at the surgery.

* * *

_I'm better sorry than safe,_

_Better never than late,_

_You'd better make sure I'm gone_

_Before you make your mistake._

* * *

"Sebastian, don't make that face, you know we have to do this," Sherlock said, already bored with the flight as they found their seats.

"Make what face?"

"The face you always make after we finish a job."

"You can hardly blame me."

_He has a point_, thought Sherlock. _He knows I'm going to kill him at the end of this._

"Oh, just shut up and watch a movie or something," he muttered.

_Just think of John._ About what, how much it'll hurt when I get the well-deserved punch in the face?_ I wonder if he'll still avoid my nose and teeth…_

Sherlock made a mental note to bring milk when he got home.

"…Sherlock?"

"What?" he snapped at the poor excuse for a companion. _How did Moriarty put up with him?_

"We're landing now. Thought you might like to know."

_How are we in London already? We were JUST in New York…_

As he climbed into the cab, he said "45 Nansen road," and left Sebastian and his luggage at the airport.

* * *

_You can't go away, just to come back the same,_

_Oh, you can't go away, just to come back the same…_

* * *

It was a _very_ busy day at the surgery. 15 cases of flu, 5 of which were some new variant or another. Screaming children, talkative mothers, deaf old men… John was very happy to get home and make a pot of tea. Mrs. Hudson came by to check on him, and he plastered his best impression of a smile on his face. When she left, he very nearly fell apart, his exhaustion and the weight of his other daily realization coming down on him very suddenly: _I love him._ Not that it matters anymore. Besides, John had seen many people die before! He had been a soldier, surely he could deal with this!

_None of them were Sherlock._

* * *

_We used to keep ourselves inside,_

_Now our_

_Eyes are open wide_

_They're open wide_

* * *

Dull.

The same thing every time.

"You wouldn't kill me, you're the _hero,_"

Or the ever-popular,

"I'm too young/old/rich/poor"

Or

"Please, don't kill me." "Please, God, let me live"

SO INCREDIBLY DULL!

This one went for the classic;

"You? But I thought-" and then, Sebastian shot her, in the side of the head. Made sure it was the left, too, as she happened to be left-handed.

"Sebastian, the gun, please."

He fired a single shot, straight into his former employee's left eye, then placed the gun in the woman's hand carefully, making sure that his wrists above the gloves didn't touch anything. He set the scene for a murder-suicide carefully, creating signs of a struggle on Sebastian's part, then, pleased with his handiwork, left for 221B.

He honestly tried to buy milk on the way, but the chip-and-pin machine decided to screech at him every five seconds about a nonexistent item in the bagging area. He gave up.

* * *

_**I tried to bring milk, I'm sorry.**_

_**-SH**_

He sent as he left the grocer's.

_**Who is this, and how the bloody hell did you get his phone?**_

_**-JW**_

Sherlock grinned slightly.

_**Open the door. Molly had to give my key back to Mrs. Hudson and it's cold outside.**_

_**-SH**_

_**How, the bloody hell, did you get his phone?**_

_**-JW**_

_**John, drop the pretext, it isn't funny. I'm cold.**_

_**-SH**_

_**Prove you're him.**_

_**-JW**_

Sherlock sighed.

_**At Buckingham Palace, when you asked if I was wearing any pants, and I said no, you asked me if we were there to see the Queen, and then Mycroft entered and I said, "Apparently, yes."**_

_**-SH**_

_**Holy shit.**_

_**-JW**_

The next second, Sherlock heard John's quick, slightly uneven footfalls rushing down the stairs. _The limp is back._ The deadbolt clicked open, and there stood John, in his ugliest beige jumper (Which now had fresh tea spilt down the front as a result of the shock), looking up incredulously at Sherlock.

* * *

He dropped his cane.

He bruised his knuckles punching Sherlock's stupid cheekbone.

To be fair, Sherlock would probably have a black eye as well.

Scratch that, he definitely would.

Mrs. Hudson came out in to the hallway.

"John, what-?"

She dropped her best china serving platter and it broke with a resounding crash.

"Hello."


	2. I Wouldn't Mind

The song for this chapter is "I Wouldn't mind" by HeIsWe, though I haven't blatantly quoted it.  
Again, I don't own anything, and I am greatly indebted to Messrs Doyle, Moffat, and their associates for building the characters, and to HeIsWe for the lovely song.  
Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 2: I wouldn't mind

It took three days of John poking Sherlock at random intervals for him to be convinced that he hadn't been drugged and that he still had most of his sanity.  
"John?"  
"Mm?"  
"You realise you've been poking my arm for the past twenty minutes, yes?"  
John startled and walked away.  
"Tea?" he called from the kitchen.  
"Yes, thank you,"

* * *

Lestrade came by in the afternoon to check on John, just like every week.  
He knocked three times before striding into the flat. He fell on his face, tripping on Sherlock's abandoned coat.  
"Greg? You okay? Sherlock! What have I told you? You need to hang up your coat when you get in!"  
"Wait- what? John, are you feeling alright?"  
At that moment, Sherlock came in.  
"What are you doing? I was supposed to make a grand entrance tomorrow at the Yard!"  
"What am I doing? Just checking in on John, seeing as you died."  
"Wasn't my choice." Sherlock murmured, his voice rumbling just loud enough for all three of them to hear and for Sherlock to regret.  
"Yes, well, send us a note next time, will you? I'm not exactly qualified to handle all this."  
"Greg-" John tried to interject.  
"What d'you mean, 'all this'?"  
"He's talking about my mental state, Sherlock," John said, glaring at Lestrade.  
"I wasn't the most stable person in the world, to say the least."  
Sherlock stared at his feet and scowled, feeling very ashamed of what he had done.  
"I'm sorry."  
"Don't do that, you had a good reason!"  
At which Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and sat on the couch, awaiting an explanation.  
"Moriarty had paid three snipers in advance to kill the two of you and Mrs. Hudson unless I jumped off of that roof. He knew, of course, that he wouldn't make it off of the roof alive either, so he had the next in command of his 'web', Sebastian Moran, keep an eye out in case I did fake it, hence my extended leave."  
"Oh, my god, I had no idea… I'm sorry, Sherlock, I had no idea!" Lestrade exclaimed as John re-emerged from the kitchen (When had he left?) with a tray of tea things and biscuits.  
"Anyway, was there something you came to talk to me about or were you just checking in?"  
"Mycroft said today would be an important day for me to come by. 'Course, I didn't know why 'till just now…"  
"Oh yeah, how're things with you two?" John asked, sipping his tea.  
"Good, very good. Wish he'd told me he knew you were alive, though, Sherlock!"  
"He didn't until last night, he must have seen me on the CCTV. In any case, I didn't tell him."  
"Okay, well, in any case, I've got to get back to the Yard… I left Donovan in charge."  
"You didn't."  
"I know, it was dumb, okay? Thanks for the tea, and Sherlock, you had better fucking not leave again."  
"Didn't plan on it."

* * *

John was having another nightmare. Before Reichenbach, Sherlock would have done nothing… But hearing his friend's shouts and sobs after having been away for so long, missing his soldier, his doctor, his constant companion, sorely, knowing that he could very well be reliving the moment that Sherlock 'died'… It was too much. As he stalked up the stairs to John's room, avoiding the creaky steps, Sherlock wondered what he should do to help. He knew from experience that shaking his friend awake was a bad idea; He had tried this after Baskerville and wound up with a swollen lower lip for three weeks. Turning on the lights in the room was also out of the question; He had tried this the first time that John had had a nightmare after moving in to 221B. His ribs still hurt.

As he crossed the threshold into John's room, seeing his friend sobbing and mumbling his name, Sherlock decided that holding John would be the best (and safest) course of action. He crawled under the duvet and tentatively draped his arm around his friend, holding his hand and stroking his knuckles. When he received no negative reaction, he snuggled closer, murmuring 'I'm here, John, it's okay, love, I'm here, I'm here, you're safe…" over and over again until he felt John relax significantly and even pull him closer. John let out a contented sigh and drifted into a more peaceful sleep, still clutching Sherlock's arm like a lifeline. Eventually, giving up on going back downstairs, Sherlock too fell asleep.


	3. The Bridge

**The Bridge**

**This one was inspired by and written while listening to The Bridge by Oh Susanna. Disclaimers haven't changed!**

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, John's face was nestled into the crook of his neck and John was breathing deeply, pretending to be asleep.

"Good morning, John."

"Mmh."

"I know you're awake, love."

"I know."

"Come here please?"

John looked up at his flatmate, slightly worried, expecting rejection. What he did not expect was for Sherlock to gently cup his face in his hand and stroke his cheek with his thumb.

"Sleep ok?" Sherlock asked tentatively. John smiled.

"Better once you were here." He leaned up and kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Thank you." He whispered, his lips just barely brushing against the detective's. Sherlock froze for a second before leaning against John's lips, his hands travelling to the doctor's hair and holding him close. Neither of them tried to deepen the kiss, and when they broke apart they simply looked at one another for a small infinity, each enjoying the other's closeness.

"Hungry? I got food last night, if you'd like…"

"You never shop."

"Well I did last night."

"What sort of food did you get?"

"Bacon, milk, lemons, yoghurt, croissants, and a ham."

John giggled slightly, picturing Sherlock making these purchases, and Sherlock kicked him under the blanket.

"What's so funny? Those are foods!"

"It's just that most of the time, when people shop, they have a particular meal in mind, and none of those foods go together. Thank you for getting food, Sherlock."

Breakfast consisted of the bacon that Sherlock had purchased, eggs borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, two of the croissants, and tea. Sherlock actually ate half of what John put in front of him before declaring that he needed a case and dragging John to Scotland Yard.

oOo

Three months later found Anderson in the ER (With Donovan clinging to his hand). The routine barrage of insults toward Sherlock had been initiated, with the now usual 'even death couldn't keep the lovebirds apart,' which finally, after three months of hearing it on a near-daily basis, pushed John over the edge. He made his and Sherlock's new relationship officially public by kissing Sherlock full on the mouth in front of half the Yard before proceeding to knocking Anderson flat to his face. Lestrade pulled them both into his office under the pretext of giving them their charges, and after closing the door behind them he broke into a grin.

"How long have you two been holding that one back?" He asked, giggling.

"He deserved it," said John. "I've been itching to break Anderson's nose since the first time I met him."

"He meant the kiss, John," Sherlock clarified, blushing. "Which was lovely, by the way."

"Oh! Well, you still deserved that… Three months since we started being a... couple? I don't really know what to call it." He blushed lightly and Greg smiled at the sight of the pair, still slightly pissed at Sherlock but no less happy for their new relationship.

"Oh yeah, do you have any new cases? There are only so many experiments that can be done on the same pair of eyeballs and I'm afraid I'm nearing the limit."

"Well it's been a pretty slow week, but let me see if there are any cold cases you haven't already solved… what about Jack the Ripper? I think that's the only one that we've got left, you solved most of them before you left! I'll let you know if anything comes up, same as always, but for now I can give you the file on Jack. Not exactly fresh information, I know, but it has been cold for 125 years, maybe you could solve it. Other than that, I'm afraid you'll have to wait for something to come up."

"Thanks, Greg. See you around, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, turning back to his papers. "See you."

oOo

Sherlock had finished the Jack the Ripper file three hours ago and was now desperately rifling through the flat for nicotine patches, cigarettes, or John's Browning, whichever he found first. John was out buying towels, a new shower curtain, and several other items because apparently Sherlock couldn't use them for his experiments without them being promptly thrown out. So what if he had soaked the towels in human blood _one time?_ It had been before John had even moved in, it wasn't _his _fault that John had thought that they were supposed to be that colour.

He found the patches, taped to the underside of the kitchen counter in the saucepan cupboard, just as John came in, soaking wet and cursing the _very_ English weather. Sherlock looked up at him and was struck with the image of a dog somebody had left out in the rain… a very cute dog, though he would never admit it outwardly.

"Is it raining?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice and slowly getting up and walking toward John, realising that there was something much more productive he could be doing than poisoning his bloodstream with copious amounts of nicotine. As they made eye contact, Sherlock picked up one of the towels that John had just brought in the door and pulled it from the plastic packaging.

"You should really get out of those clothes, they're absolutely _soaked._" His voice was now the purr that he knew would drive John mad. John gulped, slightly nervous and noting the fire in Sherlock's eyes as he started to towel John's hair.

"I- I was just going to take a shower when I got in…" There was now a slight pink tinge to the tops of John's cheeks as Sherlock's face grew gradually closer to his own.

"Good idea, I was just thinking…"

"D'you want to..?"

"Do you?"

"Oh, God, yes." He kissed Sherlock hungrily, vaguely wondering how he had gone from pissed off to downright horny in the span of three seconds before losing himself completely in his desire.

**I know, I'm such a tease, huh?**

**This kind of stopped being a songfic somewhere along the way, but oh well. I'll still use song titles for the chapter names and tell you the names of the artists in the upper A/N. I'm posting the next chapter with this one because I can't stand when authors leave a sex scene hanging for three weeks. That will be up in a few hours. Reviews encourage shower sex...?**


	4. Alabaster

**Alabaster**

**The song for this chapter is 'Alabaster' by Oh Susanna. I don't own anything, unfortunately, so credit to every lovely person who helped to make this possible. Please review and tell me if there are any blatant errors, so I can fix them. Please note that I use 'pants' in the British sense, as in underwear to Americans and Canadians. Trousers are different.**

o0o

"_You should really get out of those clothes, they__'__re absolutely soaked.__"__ His voice was now the purr that he knew would drive John mad. John gulped, slightly nervous and noting the fire in Sherlock__'__s eyes as he started to towel John__'__s hair. _

"_I- I was just going to take a shower when I got in__…"__ There was now a slight pink tinge to the tops of John__'__s cheeks as Sherlock__'__s face grew gradually closer to his own._

"_Good idea, I was just thinking__…"_

"_D__'__you want to..?__"_

"_Do you?__"_

"_Oh, God, yes.__"__ He kissed Sherlock hungrily, vaguely wondering how he had gone from pissed off to downright horny in the span of three seconds before losing himself completely in his desire. _

They made their way clumsily to the bathroom, scattering their clothes in their wake. Sherlock closed the door behind them, locking it, and turned to John, effectively stripped of everything but his pants, and he licked his lips, taking in the sight before him, as this was their first time seeing each other in full glory (at least in romantic intentions). John's chest was toned despite having been discharged on invalid… Speaking of which, the wound on his left shoulder was very interesting, it almost looked like…

"John?" he asked, his voice halfway to unclouded, as his hand hovered tentatively over the scar.

"Can I?" He almost breathed it, his lips ghosting over John's jaw.

"Mmh? Yeah, if you want,"

Sherlock gently touched his lover's shoulder, noting that John recoiled very slightly the first time.

"John, did you… Did you remove the bullet yourself?" He gently pressed his lips to the still slightly pink scar tissue, already knowing the answer.

"Yes… that's why it's such a nasty scar. I've gotten pretty self-conscious about it, for some reason the battle scars aren't as attractive as they're cut out to be to most of the people I've dated… Look, can we not talk about this right this moment?"

"Sorry, just curious."

"I can tell you the whole story after, okay?"

"Okay, sorry." John turned the shower on as hot as it would go before removing his pants and stepping in, not bothering to wait for it to warm up. Sherlock followed quickly and they continued their kisses from earlier, all lips and teeth and tongue, bodies pressed together under the rapidly heating water, hands wandering and memorising, before John pulled away to look at Sherlock in much the same way that Sherlock had surveyed him earlier, taking in every inch of the alabaster skin presented to him, admiring the way that the water flowed in rivulets down Sherlock's sculpted chest, the way that his glasz eyes drifted closed, enjoying the scalding heat of the water over his back. John stepped back towards him and began tracing reverent patterns on to his love's skin with his fingertips. He enjoyed the shudder that he drew from the detective as he reached around his back and brushed down his spine from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, simultaneously drawing his lips down the front of Sherlock's body, from the prominent hollow under his throat to just below his navel, before pausing to look up in askance with his left hand on Sherlock's hip and his right hand on the small of his back, steadying both himself and his lover.

"Oh, God, John, yes," Sherlock barely whispered, not trusting his voice. He had to steady himself against the tiles as John ran the back of his tongue along Sherlock's hardness teasingly, licking the head and inserting his tongue into the slit before relaxing his throat and taking the length fully into his mouth, humming deeply and bobbing, pulling Sherlock's hips against his face, encouraging his lover to buck into his mouth. Sherlock unintentionally fucked the back of John's throat raw, moaning and trembling at the sensation. Seeing that Sherlock was close, John released his cock, earning him a moan and a whimper from the detective. He stood and pulled him down, whispering into his ear;

"I'm sorry, love, I want you to come inside me, just not my mouth." At this, Sherlock very nearly fell over, having thought that if any penetration were to occur, that John would want to 'top'… but before he could fully process the thought with his pleasure-clouded mind, he was distracted by John shutting off the shower and pulling him out of the tub, pausing only momentarily to towel himself and Sherlock off and to grab something out of the bag that he had brought the towels home in… _so he did plan this_, Sherlock realised upon observing that the mysterious something was a bottle of lube. They then drifted into the bedroom, touching each other in needy reverence and shutting the door firmly behind them, Sherlock backing John on to the bed, hands tangled in his short blond hair, before lowering his head between John's legs, looking up for permission, and John moaned in agreement.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked anyway.

"Yes, for God's sake, Sherlock, please!" Needing no further permission, Sherlock kissed a trail from the head of John's erection, pressing his lips against his balls and his perineum before circling his lover's entrance with the tip of his tongue. He felt the soldier writhe beneath him and gently pressed his tongue inside John's hole, eliciting a shout and a moan from his love. He smirked and drew his tongue out, laving over the now slightly less tight hole and grabbing the lube from the floor beside the bed where John had dropped it in their fervour. He then moved back up John's body, kissing and biting gently as he lubed both of his hands thoroughly. He kissed his lover's jugular as he simultaneously flicked the thumb of his right hand over the head of John's length and pushed his left middle finger into the tight, warm heat that was his John Watson. He tried to wait a few moments so that the doctor could grow accustomed to the intrusion, but promptly found John moving his hips, trying to fuck himself on his finger and whimpering, simply,

"_more._" That very nearly threw Sherlock over the edge completely, but he managed to keep from orgasming, instead focusing on adding another finger, and then another, and pumping John's hardness with his slick, lube-coated hand in time to his thrusts into him.

"Sherlock, please, please, I want you, please, I want you inside of me…" Again, Sherlock bit back his orgasm and lubed his now-weeping cock, positioning himself at John's entrance and looking up at John to find that he had closed his eyes… that wouldn't work.

"John."

Incoherent mumbles.

"Please open your eyes for me, love? Please look at me…"

John's eyes opened hazily and made eye contact instantly with Sherlock's. Sherlock pushed into him as gently as he could manage, desperately trying not to pound John into the mattress. He bit his lip as he started to thrust to keep from shouting aloud as he watched his partner's face twist from pain to discomfort to unprecedented pleasure, all whilst keeping eye contact and moaning his approval, tangling his hands into Sherlock's untamed and still very wet curls, shouting his name whenever the pleasure became too intense.

"Sherlock, let go, please, shout with me, fuck me as hard as you want to, please, please, please, please…" he eventually got stuck on the word please as Sherlock obliged him, changing his angle to brush against John's prostate with each thrust… it soon became too much for either of them, and John came, hard, shouting Sherlock's name and a litany of curses, his muscles tightening around Sherlock, who followed him a few strokes later, moaning and mumbling something along the lines of

"Iloveyoujohnpleaseletmeloveyouineedyouineedyouilo veyoupleasepleasepleaseplease…"

As they bathed in the afterglow of their sex, John realised that he had forgotten something incredibly important and got up from the bed without a word, kissing Sherlock's forehead and slipping on the blue dressing gown to go into the living room. Sherlock got up in his absence, and was just about to follow him when he reappeared with his right hand behind his back. Sherlock tilted his head in confusion (for once), but his eyes widened in shock when John knelt before him, in nothing more than _his_ dressing gown, he himself completely naked and covered in come, and produced a black velvet box from behind his back, looking Sherlock in the eye as he opened it to reveal a simple silver band with two gems: a crescent of sapphire wrapped partially around citrine, creating a whole circle, both flush with the surface of the ring.

"Sherlock Holmes, would you do me the honour of joining me in marriage?"

"John, I… first off, yes, of course, I'll be honoured to, but I want to word it better, give me a moment. You might want to be up on the bed, this could take me a while."

Five hours later, as John was asleep and curled around his side, Sherlock finished mentally preparing his speech. He tapped John's arm until he woke up, before starting.

"Yes."

"Sherlock. It took you…" here he checked the clock beside the bed. "Five hours, to just say 'yes.'?"

"I had had a speech prepared, but then I realised that that would be somewhat redundant, as I had already given you my answer." John smiled, and took the ring from its box on the bedside table, handing it to Sherlock.

"If it doesn't fit, we can have it resized… I was going to get mine after, if you agreed, as I didn't want to make an ass of myself." Sherlock turned the band of metal around in his hands, revealing that both the inside and the outside of the ring had been inscribed with half of one of his favourite quotations. He recited it in full as proof to John that he knew the reference.

"'_Stand to your work and be wise, certain of sword and pen, who are neither children nor gods, but men in a world of men.' _Kipling? Lovely. I'm glad that you hadn't chosen one of those ridiculous love poems, not that I wouldn't have worn it anyway… It's lovely, John, thank you. For yours, is it the same, or are the gems reversed?" he asked as he slipped the ring onto his right hand ring finger. It fit perfectly.

"They're reversed, and I have the second half of the quotation. I thought you'd want the bit about certainty and that." He smiled and wrapped his arms around his fiancée's waist and sighed, falling back to sleep, but not before feeling more than hearing Sherlock mumble 'I love you, John Watson' against his hair.


	5. Star Witness

**Star Witness**  
**Song: Kate and Janelle Star Witness (Neko Case cover) in the PCVS Stairwell.**  
**Wedding chapter! OMG WHAT! **  
**This is kind of for PCVS, it was more than just a school, no matter what the people who closed it say.**  
**Disclaimer: asdfghjkl I fuckin wish I owned these characters and had control of what they did in canon but that honour goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and to Messrs. Moffat and Gatiss.**

There were two weeks left before the wedding, and although everything had been arranged, John was still very nervous. Not about his whole "I'm-not-gay" argument, that had been thrown out the window almost as soon as he had met Sherlock, though he hadn't admitted it until ten months ago. No, he was worried that Sherlock would realise how ordinary and dull he was, and leave him in search of somebody as interesting as himself. It was bound to happen…

"Tea?" John asked half-nervously from the kitchen as Sherlock stood in the living room window with his violin, composing.

"No, thank you, John." He suddenly walked out the door without another word. John shook his head, wondering if he would ever understand Sherlock's eccentricities. Suddenly he heard a door slam and shouting from downstairs.

"I will** not** have you in my house if you're only here to insult my tenants! Who are you, anyway?" Came Mrs. Hudson's voice. John heard Sherlock say something, but it wasn't clear from the kitchen. He left his tea to steep and went downstairs.

"What's going on? I heard shouting."  
"It's nothing, John; My father decided to pay us a visit." Sherlock said, glaring at the visitor: a stocky, elderly man, several inches shorter than Sherlock, bearing no resemblance save for the piercing eyes peering out from behind his thick glasses. His hair looked as though it may once have been auburn, and it was cropped, but stuck out in a way that made it obvious that it naturally hung in curls.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes, I'm John Watson." he said, extending his hand.

"I am well aware of who you are, Dr. Watson. I was just here to give Sherrinford some advice, now I shall extend the same hospitality to you; Stay away from my son. His sociopathic tendencies and his disregard for law and order make him a liability and a threat to anybody who is around him for very long, and if you value your life, this marriage is a very bad idea. Those who get too close to Sherrinford are almost always hurt in the end; His last romantic partner learned that the hard way."

"That wasn't my fault, father. He knew the risks, and so does John. I did make it clear exactly how dangerous it was for him to be near me, and he has accepted that risk. Even Mycroft couldn't dissuade him." Here, John moved closer to Sherlock and adopted his military stance.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but I know exactly how dangerous it is to live with Sherlock. I've been kidnapped by the Chinese mafia and followed by snipers, I've had a bomb strapped to my chest for Christ's sake, but I really couldn't care less how dangerous it is, I love him. You can try to convince me to leave all you want, but you couldn't, not even with a gun pressed against my head. If I died tomorrow, I'd be happy knowing that I had had the chance to know Sherlock and to love him. I don't particularly care what your family's stance on sentiment is, but I don't think that it really matters. I will do everything in my power to make your son happy, and you should be glad for him for that, because I don't go halfway." Siger Holmes looked back and forth between his son and the army doctor, nodded curtly, and left.

"Well, I never! The nerve on him, it almost matches yours, Sherlock. Came barging into my flat he did, demanding to speak with you! I see where you learnt it from, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"Not from him, actually… He hardly had any hand in my upbringing. I had a nurse with nerves of steel for about six months when I was nine, that's where I learnt it, I think. So sorry about that, Mrs. Hudson, have a good evening. John? Are you alright? I'm sorry about him. He's still stuck on the whole 'traditional marriage' issue… Not surprising, at his age, but still inconvenient for him, with two gay sons. Not that Mycroft has told him yet, but I'm sure he knows anyway." Mrs. Hudson, seeing that she wasn't needed to further the conversation, said good night by way of nodding at them with her knowing smile and returned to her flat.

"I'm fine, love. What was he saying before I got down here, though? It sounded like it upset Mrs. Hudson." They started up the stairs to unit B.

"He was telling me that he hoped that I would reconsider, and that he was convinced that this would end up like it did with Victor Trevor. That's what he was saying about my last romantic partner, but he got it wrong; I didn't care for Victor, he was there and willing, and we experimented a bit in uni, but it was never anything romantic, it was purely sexual. What my father doesn't understand is that although I did attempt to help him, I never cared for him, and so I was undetermined. With you, John, I-" John cut him off.

"What happened to him? Where is he?"

"That's him on the mantelpiece."

"Oh. Would you keep mine as well?"

"What?"

"My skull, Sherlock, would you keep it?"

"If you would let me, but I'll have you know that I do not intend to let you die, John. I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety."

"Except for one thing, and you have to promise me this: You can't die again. Promise me, Sherlock, please."

"But John, what if-"

"No. You saw what happened to me after you left, and you weren't even really dead that time. You know full well that next time, I won't hesitate to take my life, and I'm sure that that's the opposite of what you want." Sherlock kissed him, trying to erase the thought of suicide from his love's mind, attempting to convey that he would everything that he could to keep them together for as long as possible.

oOo

It was December 15th, the day of the wedding. John and Sherlock were already standing at the altar, John in his uniform, Sherlock in a tuxedo, (though he had forgone the tie in favour of his scarf) as the guests seated themselves. Hamish and Harriet Watson sat in the front on the left side of the aisle (Elisa, John's mother, did not approve of the marriage), directly across the aisle from Siger and Violet Holmes (Mycroft was officiating). Behind Harriet sat Stamford and Sarah (who had been married the year before to a younger man and was now fully pregnant).

Behind the Holmeses, to everyone's surprise, sat Anderson and Donovan. Molly sat behind them and next to Mrs. Hudson, and both were blowing their noses. It was a small ceremony, and only about 20 people had been invited, with fewer people in attendance. In the back right corner, dressed in black and red, sat Irene Adler, who, despite not having been invited, was rather welcome at the ceremony. To Sherlock's left stood Greg Lestrade, and to John's right stood Bill Murray, the nurse who had saved his arm in Afghanistan.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to join these two men in marriage…"

Skip ahead half an hour and the grooms were exchanging vows. They had chosen to write their own vows. John started:

"Let it never be said that I told a lie about my sexuality: I'm really not gay. But I think that it's safe to say that everybody has exceptions to their rule and mine is Sherlock. I don't think I'll ever get used to his habits, and I'm probably going to have to force him to eat for the rest of our lives, but I wouldn't change a thing about him. Sherlock, you're one of the most frustrating people I've ever met, and for some odd reason, I love you for it. I'm so happy to be standing here today with you, because I've never wanted to do this with anyone else. No matter how many times you fall, I will do everything I can to catch you. I love you so much, and I'm so proud that I'll be spending the rest of my life with you."

That was when the shot rang out, breaking the stained glass of the church window, and hitting John on his right shoulder, just below where the one on the left was situated. Everything blurred into slow motion; John was vaguely aware of Sherlock catching him as he started to fall; of Bill shouting at Mycroft to call an ambulance while he and Sherlock inspected the wound; and of Violet Holmes' scream as she ran forward to help. Lestrade was running to the window to see if he could tell where the sniper was, and Mycroft was yelling for anybody who did not have medical training to please remain where they were and to remain calm so that he could call 999.

Sherlock was holding John close and attempting to keep him conscious, why did he look so worried? It was nothing, John was just a little bit sleepy… as he closed his eyes, he felt Sherlock hold him closer and he smiled.  
"John! John, please, you need to stay awake, please, love, please, you need to wake up! Please!"

John felt something wet fall on to his face and opened his eyes to Sherlock, crying above him, his scarf gone to staunch the… Bleeding? John was partially aware of a dull pain in his right shoulder, but… Oh. That's what it was. He'd gone and let himself get shot again. He winced but smiled up at his almost-husband and whispered,

"It's nothing I haven't dealt with before, love, I'll be fine. I promise, I'll be fine. I love you so much. Did we finish the ceremony yet?"

"No, not yet." Sherlock replied with tears still lingering in his eyes. John turned to Mycroft.

"Give me the registry, let me sign it."

"John, I don't think-" Sherlock tried to interject.

"Please? I don't want to have to do it in some bloody hospital somewhere." Mycroft handed him the paper and pen, and John signed with his left hand, thanking God he was ambidextrous. Then Sherlock signed, and Mycroft, as officiate, and Bill and Lestrade as the witnesses. Sherlock kissed John gently just as the paramedics burst in and lay him on the stretcher.

They shared a look of 'Don't leave me/I'm not leaving you' and Sherlock stayed with John in the back of the ambulance all the way to the hospital, holding his hand and gently stroking his face. The doctors in Emergency Surgery tried to make him wait in the room adjacent, but they couldn't make him leave John's side. Just before the anaesthetic hit John's system, he and Sherlock exchanged rings and shared another kiss.

**I'm sorry! I really wasn't planning for this to happen, but it did! I'm on quite the writing jag right now, so there might be another chapter later today, I don't know. **  
**Please review! Ego booster juice is always lovely.**


	6. Furnace Room Lullaby

_**Furnace Room Lullaby**_  
_**Song: Furnace Room Lullaby by Neko Case**_  
_**Disclaimer: sadly, although the scenarios portrayed here are of my own invention, I do not own the characters portrayed herein. All credit for these amazing characters must be given to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the original characters and to Messrs. Moffat and Gatiss for their modernisations. **_  
_**Please review! Should I write a story entirely of my own invention, for once? Let me know! Warnings for this chapter: descriptions of child abuse, angst, feels for Teen!Sherlock, suicide of a dumb jerk, and also fluff, but that's not really a warning.**_  
_**This is set five days after the last chapter; the doctors kept John sedated to let him start to heal.**_

When John woke up, the first thing he was aware of were two sounds: the incessant beeping of a heart monitor, and very tired, shaky sobs that were not his own. The second things that he began to notice were that there was a weight over his legs, that he was in a cold bed with starchy sheets, and that he felt as though he had been run over by an 18-wheeled truck. He could smell antiseptic and iron, and his mouth felt dry, like he hadn't had anything to drink in days. He probably hadn't. John groaned and opened his eyes, only to close them again almost immediately; it was far too bright here.

When he felt that his eyes could adjust properly, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock, half-asleep and looking delirious, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to the bed and lying over his legs, clutching at his hand like a lifeline. John gently stroked Sherlock's knuckles and tried to sit up, quickly regretting this as a sharp pain shot through his abdomen from his shoulder.

He fell back to the bed, groaning, as Sherlock sprang up and began kissing him and gently holding him, whispering softly,  
"John, John, I love you, I love you so much, John, I love you, I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry, love, please forgive me for letting you be hurt, I'm so sorry, John, Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyouimsorrypleaseforgivemeilov eyouimsorryJohnimsorryJohnpleaseforgiveme"

John could do nothing but lie there, unable to reach up and hold Sherlock close, having to settle for kissing his hair and forehead gently and whispering that he didn't blame Sherlock, how could he possibly have known? It was okay now, he whispered, because now they would never have to leave each other again.

Mycroft, Violet, and Siger Holmes chose that moment to walk in, seeing Sherlock in full vulnerability. Siger balked, Mycroft looked concerned, and Violet rushed over to make sure that he and John were alright. She and John got on famously, as it would happen, and she was extremely concerned for her new son-in-law.

Violet was a very caring soul by nature, a tall, willowy woman with long, curly dark hair, now streaked liberally with grey, and warm brown eyes. Sherlock's resemblance to her was striking; even if he hadn't been introduced, John would have known immediately who this woman was.

As she fussed over the pair of them, her ex-husband presided over the scene with a look of absolute disgust on his face.  
"I did warn you, doctor Watson. Sherrinford has made enemies in some very powerful people, and some of them will stop at nothing to see him and those around him hurt."  
"And I've told you, sir, I don't care how many times I'm hurt as long as I can stay with Sherlock. You're mistaken if you think that you can make me leave him." Mycroft smirked at this, enjoying the outrage that momentarily flashed across his father's face before he re-instituted his carefully constructed façade.

It was Violet who spoke next.  
"Siger, I'll not have your intolerances in this room as our son-in-law is injured. Either drop the subject or leave." Something in her tone of voice reminded John of the commanding officer that he had been trained under in preparation for Afghanistan. Siger left quickly, obviously having incurred his ex-wife's wrath one time too many. John could have sworn he even saw Mycroft shiver at her tone, and he could feel Sherlock do the same.

"I'm so sorry about him, love, he gets like that," she said as she turned back to John, the chill leaving her voice completely.  
"Is there anything I can get for either of you? Tea? I could find out if they offer a decent meal in this place, if you'd like?"  
"John isn't allowed to eat anything solid yet," Sherlock fairly croaked, his deep voice scratched by crying.  
"Tea would be lovely though, if you wouldn't mind," John said.  
"I would get it myself, but I can't even sit up properly."  
"You've just been shot, John. I think that's a reasonable excuse to be asking for somebody else to get you tea for once," came Mycroft's voice from the corner.  
"I'll get it, mummy, you stay here with John and Sherlock."

"Thank you for getting father out of here, mummy," said Sherlock softly just after Mycroft had left.  
"I don't know if I could have managed to be intimidating enough, but nothing surprising there." Violet put her arm around her youngest son, patting and rubbing his left arm gently, comforting him as he stared at his hands holding John's, ashamed that even after all of these years, he was scared of his father, a man more than four inches shorter than him and more than twice his age.  
"I'm sorry, dear, if I had known I would have left him so much sooner," she crooned softly, wrapping both of her arms around his trembling frame.

"Known what?" John asked cautiously, gently squeezing Sherlock's hand.  
"My father abused me as a child and as a teenager, John, that's why I'm still so scared of him. It used to just be because of my social ineptitude, but of course it got worse after I came out. That's part of why I usually feign asexuality." John's eyes widened and he held his arms as open as he could, and Sherlock circled his arms around his husband's waist gratefully, being sure to avoid any pressure to John's wound.  
"Sherlock, I had no idea, love, I'm so sorry!" he put his left (uninjured) arm around Sherlock gently.  
"I don't see how it's your fault," Sherlock mumbled into his chest.

~22 years previous~

Sherlock stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, the door locked. He carefully inspected the word that his father had carved into the skin stretched over his ribs: Faggot, clear as day, matching the scab on the left that read Freak. He determined that although it wouldn't need stitches, it would probably scar. He carefully cleaned, anointed, and bandaged it, opting for gauze and tape as opposed to adhesive bandages as the bandages might have stuck to it and caused him grief when he tried to remove them. He was just finishing up when he heard a soft knock at the door; this was the bathroom attached to his room, so Sherlock knew that it wasn't anybody actually needing in._ Mycroft_.

"Please go away, My, I'm almost done, and then I'll come down for supper. Just let me get cleaned up." He sighed and put on the fresh shirt that he had brought with him, opening the door to the very surprised face of his mother, whose eyes flicked between the blood and the medical supplies on the bathroom counter to the way that her youngest son was standing and the look of horror on his face when he saw that it was her standing in the doorway, and not his brother.  
"Sherlock," she started carefully,  
"Are you okay? Are you hurt? Let me see, please, love." He lifted his black button-up gently and closed his eyes in reservation as she fell to her knees to peel back the gauze to look at the wound and make sure that Sherlock had cared for it properly. Her fingers ghosted over the singular word and she looked up at him with tears in her eyes.  
"Who did this?" She whispered.  
"He said he'd kill me if I told-"  
"Sherlock Sherrinford Holmes, who on God's green earth did this to you?!"  
"Father did," the fifteen-year-old said in a small voice.  
"He said that if I told anybody except for Mycroft, or if Mycroft told anybody, that he would kill us both," he elaborated.

Violet covered the wound back up and kissed her son's nose fondly before standing and swiftly leaving the room. A few seconds later a number of crashes were heard, as well as his mother's screeches and the door slamming. He heard footsteps in the hallway and quickly locked himself back into the bathroom, fearing that it was his father, come to kill him.

So he was surprised when he heard Mycroft call softly through the door,  
"Sherlock, you can come out of there now, he's gone. Mother made him leave. Come and have something to eat, please? Mrs. Vanderbilt made a roast, if you're hungry. I don't know. Join us when you're ready, okay?" Sherlock opened the door a bit and nodded at his brother, smiling.  
"Okay. Food sounds good right now."

~Present Day (Three weeks after we last saw them)~

John woke up in the lower bedroom of 221B Baker st. with Sherlock's face pressed against his ribs on his left side, his arms wrapped loosely around John's hips. He ran his fingers through his husband's hair absently, thinking about everything that he had learned over the past few weeks about the wonderful man currently impersonating a koala._ Does that make me a tree?_ John wondered amusedly. Sherlock had been through so much in his life, and he had decided to spend the remainder of it with an equally traumatised veteran… he smiled slightly and chuckled at how messed up the pair of them were.

An ex-army doctor with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp and a self-proclaimed "High-functioning sociopath"- although John didn't know if he quite believed Sherlock on that count. Honestly if he had to say that Sherlock had any sort of mental 'dysfunction', he would probably say it would be Asperger's or some other very mild form of Autism. Sherlock might not associate very much with other people, but that was not of his own volition; he had been seen as an outcast because of his intellect and his observational skills, and the situation with his father certainly hadn't helped.

oOo

Siger Holmes had never wanted a second son; he was perfectly happy with having Mycroft to carry on the family name, and for seven years, it looked like he would continue to be the only surviving child of the Holmes family. But when Violet got pregnant again, he was glad at first, he hoped that perhaps it would be a girl to complete the image of the perfect family. When not only was it a son, but a freak of a boy, gangly and freakishly tall for his age, not to mention his social shortcomings, Siger had been incredibly disappointed.

When, at age fifteen, this freak had decided to shame the family and be a homosexual, Siger had had no control over his actions; he saw red. Now, twenty-two years later, his sons were both in homosexual relationships; yes, of course he knew, it didn't matter that Mycroft hadn't told him, he could see it in the way that he shifted and in his mannerisms. Siger was overcome with guilt and felt as though he had failed in his capacities as a father; He knew that he shouldn't have beaten or cut Sherrinford as he had, but knowing wouldn't change what he had done.

As he sat in the bedroom of the hotel suite that he had taken out for the occasion of his youngest's wedding, he laid out an envelope on the bedside table, addressed to Sherlock Sherrinford Holmes; it held his note. He then pushed the cold steel of his revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger as the first tear escaped his eye.


End file.
